A fortnight after my arrest I was informed that a party of convicts would
start for Moscow that evening. I was to accompany them, and accordingly
must assume the convict garb. After eighteen years I think of that day with
a shudder.
First of all, I was taken into a room where was stored everything necessary
to the equipment of a convict under sentence. On the floor lay piles of
chains ; and clothes, boots, etc., were heaped on shelves. From among them
some were selected that were supposed to fit me ; and I was then conducted
to a second room. Here the right side of my head was shaved, and the hair
on the left side cut short. 1 had seen people in the prison who had been
treated in this fashion, and the sight had always made a painful impression
on me, as indeed it does on every one. But when I saw my own face in the
glass a cold shudder ran down my spine, and I experienced a sensation of
personal degradation to something less than human. 1 thought of the days
-- in Russia not so long ago -- when criminals were branded with hot irons.
A convict was waiting ready to fasten on my fetters. I was placed on a stool,
and had to put my foot on an anvil. The blacksmith fitted an iron ring round
each ankle, and welded it together. Every stroke of the hammer made my heart
sink, as I realized that a new existence was beginning for me.
The mental depression into which I now fell was soon accompanied by physical
discomfort. The fetters at first caused me intolerable pain in walking,
and even disturbed my sleep. it also requires considerable practice before
one can easily manage to dress and undress. The heavy chains, about thirteen
pounds in weight, are not only an encumbrance, but are very painful, as
they chafe the skin round the ankles ; and the leather lining is but little
protection to those unaccustomed to these adornments. Another great torment
is the continual clinking of the chains. It is indescribably irritating
to the nervous, and reminds the prisoner at every turn that he is "deprived
of all rights." I hardly knew myself as I looked in the glass and beheld
a fully attired convict. . . .
My own clothes I gave away to the warders, and any possessions of value
-- watch, ring, cigarette case - I sent by post to relations. I kept only
my books. I had been given a bag in which to keep a change of linen ; and
into it I also put a few volumes of Shakespeare, Goethe, Heine, Molière,
and Rousseau, thus completing my preparations for traveling. . . .
We were taken straight to the railway carriage engaged for us by the organizers
of the convoy. I asked my companions the reason of their banishment, and
learned from them that -- as in many other instances described to me by
people who had similarly been exiled to Siberia -- they had simply been
accused by the police of being " untrustworthy." This word has
become classical in Russian police affairs, and has a conveniently vague
signification. Literally it means " of whom nothing good can be expected."
A young man or girl associates with So-and-so, reads such and such books
; this is enough to awaken suspicion that the said young man or girl is
" untrustworthy." The police or the gendarmerie pay a domiciliary
visit, find a suspicious letter or a prohibited book, and then the course
of events is certain, -arrest, imprisonment, Siberia. It may be scarcely
credible that people languish for years in prison, without any pretense
of legal procedure against them, simply by decree of an officer of the gendarmerie
; and that at the good pleasure of these officers-most of them fabulously
ignorant men -- people are banished to the wilds of Siberia. Even those
familiar with Russian affairs are often shocked and staggered by some fresh
case of this kind.
As we were nearing a large station the officer informed us that we should
be joined here by some more political exiles; and when the train came to
a standstill, two quite young girls -- at the most eighteen to twenty years
of age -- and two youths were brought into our carriage. We three who came
from Kiev were by no means aged, but we might almost have been called old
folks by these children. We received the newcomers cordially, and of course
begged for their story, which was as follows:
In the district of Poltava the chief town is a small place called Romny,
and in this little town there is a girls' school. Two or three of the scholars
hit upon the idea of lending one another books, and making notes on them,
-not books that were in any way forbidden, but that were accessible to all.
Soon a few young men joined them ; and thus a small reading society was
formed, such as might help to pass away the long winter evenings in the
dull little provincial town. As these young people had no idea that they
were committing any offense, they naturally never dreamed of keeping their
proceedings secret. But the eye of the law is sleepless ! The officer commanding
the gendarmerie in that place saw and triumphed.
For years he had been vegetating in this obscure corner of the empire, and
had never unearthed the least little conspiracy nor brought to light a secret
society ; now was his chance. He could at last make manifest his burning
zeal, his devotion to his country and his Tsar; and recognition by his superiors,
perhaps an order or promotion, shone before him. One night the gendarmerie
paid domiciliary visits to the dwellings of the young ladies of the school.
Certainly nothing suspicious was found, but the frightened girls "
confessed " that they had " held meetings," and that they
read books in a " society." This was enough for the brave sergeant
; here were grounds for the State to take action against the " secret
society of Romny." The girls and their friends were arrested and imprisoned;
a report was sent to St. Petersburg about the discovery of a secret society,
in which such and such persons had taken part, and discussed " social
questions " together ; the officer was of the opinion that these evil
doers should be sent to Siberia, and the thing was done. . . .